Until The Sidewalk Ends
by gustin puckerman
Summary: What do you know? Sherlock Holmes is real. And Rose Tyler is determined to meet him.
1. Rose

**Disclaimer**: Everything belongs to their rightful owner(s)  
**Pairing**: Eventual (and hopefully slow burn) Rose/Sherlock.  
**Genre**: Drama, Romance, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Adventure (so, kind of like, practically― _everything_).  
**World /Story Setting**: Post-Season 3 [BBC Sherlock], post-Doomsday & in Pete's (parallel) world [Doctor Who]  
**Rating**: PG-13/T. There will be cussing though.  
**Summary**: What do you know? Sherlock Holmes is real. And Rose Tyler is determined to meet him.

**Author's Note: Been planning this even _before_ I watched both series. So. Idk. Blame my head and my best friend.**

* * *

**UNTIL THE SIDEWALK ENDS**

_**{for emma. a crappy fic to satisfy our selfish needs? i hope i haven't disappoint you.}**_

**FIRST. _ROSE_.**

* * *

Eight months.

She'd been here for eight months.

That's a lot right. That's like, _really_ a lot. Perhaps for the Doctor it wasn't― perhaps for the Doctor, it has been only for a few weeks. But she's been away for eight months. And that has been eight miserable months of her trying to scrap through another day, in the hopes that perhaps in the piles of cases they received each day would lead her straight to him. Well, probably not _straight_― but at least, it would provided her with _something_. Something she could work with. Something that would just... make... everyday... she's lived... worth... _living_―

She's been too hard at work. She knew. That was why she kept muttering and thinking about this and forcing these words to eat her alive when she should really just be focusing on this case. She's got so many reports she needed doing. So... many...

What she needed was coffee. Lots of them. _Tons_.

She's lived by them now, the coffee― quite a while now, to be honest. She's never really seen the daylight, not willingly. If she did, it would probably for field cases. And she tends to take a lot of those. She thought: she needed those. Field cases. It helped sometimes. Get things off her mind. Yes. Of course it does. And she's lived by them too, the cases― names after names, titles after titles, serial numbers after the other. _Stop_. Stop, Rose. You're thinking too much.

She was.

Must be the coffee.

"Rose."

She looked up at the strained voice, her vision a large blur at first, _unfocused_, before― "Pete." She took a moment, realised where she was ― at her desk, office empty, stack of papers covering every corner of the table she was at, and she's been scribbling, highlighting, _noting_... ― and it was late. Her floor was offline. For an hour now, maybe, based on her observation, and quick glances at the hanging clock. She swallowed, and stared back at her father. "Do you need anything?"

"Do I need― _Rose_." Pete pressed on, his frustration written clearly under the shadows of his face, and Rose fought off the guilt which began to seep into her conscious; she looked away.

"What?" She managed, a little irritated. It wasn't as though she hasn't been in this situation before― because she had. More than she could count, honestly.

"You're working yourself sick."

"I'm not." She retorted. "I'm perfectly fine."

Pete gave her a vacant look. "Tell that to your mother." He paused, just to give it a dramatic effect and Rose resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It wasn't as though she didn't expect that. Of course she did. They were talking about _Jackie Tyler_, for goodness' sakes; Rose actually felt sorry for the older man, though not sorry enough that she'll give in to his still-silent request. Pete breathed heavily through his nostrils, "I've been trying to overlook this situation, Rose― trying to _convince_ myself, and everyone else, that you were alright. But the matter of fact was, you aren't―"

"I'm _fine_―"

"You're working yourself to death."

"Straight quotation from Mum?"

"Actually―" Pete paused, grim. "_Yes_."

"Oh _God_," Rose muttered, now pressing her right palm across her face, her left hand tossing the file on her desk. Pete straightened his back, just a little bit, perhaps taking note of her annoyance, though obviously _hers_ stood for a completely different reason, one opposing to her. She was _so_ tired of this, she thought. People worrying about her, fixing her up into this image of someone who's a workaholic that's searching for something that was impossible.

It _wasn't_ impossible.

That was the problem. That was the matter people never quite understood: _it wasn't impossible_.

She just, she _needed_ to find a way to proof her statement. To get back to _him_.

She had to.

"Rose."

Rose quickly snapped herself out of the trance, finding her eyes landed directly with her father's; reality sunk in once again. She clenched her teeth, but held her tongue. Pete sighed. "You can't keep doing this." He pointed towards the mess she managed to make on her table, and knew that a teensy part of her inside agreed with him. "You can't keep pushing yourself to the limit. You'll _break_."

"I won't―" _I won't break_. She clammed her mouth shut, and then drew out a quiet sigh. "I can't stop. Not right now."

"Why?"

"The case―"

"Can wait." Pete ground out, sounding firm. "Go out, Rose. Have fun. At least for tonight. Just... be young again. You owe yourself to do that. After all the... _months_ cooped up in this goddamn building. The night is still young."

"I―" She exhaled, pressing her fingers against her temple; her back falling back against her chair. "I don't know, Pete."

"Look. Owen said something about the bar the team always hang out at? You should go there. Join them. Talk. Have a _real_ conversation for once. It could be good for you." Pete tried to smile, urging his case. "Plus, it wouldn't hurt to go back home and actually give Jackie a decent answer when she asked."

Rose hummed thoughtfully, her eyes falling back to the papers scattered before her eyes. "How's Tony?"

"He's fine. Eats a lot. Been gaining weight, though I think it's perfectly normal considering he's in his rapid growth phase. Unfortunately, your mother didn't share the same thought. I'm still waiting for the moment the paints on the wall began to peel over over the sound of her shrieking." Pete humoured, and Rose smiled fondly at this. It's been exactly three months since she's had lunch with her mother and brother and Pete altogether. Or dinner. Dinner sounded good now. As if reading her mind, Pete voiced out: "So, I'm taking Tony to the doctor this weekend. You should come over for dinner. He's been asking for you."

"Yeah, maybe I will." Rose responded, tired and drained.

"Rose."

"Yeah?"

"Just― take care of yourself, okay?"

"Yeah. Sure." She managed, nodding, limply raising the file back. "Thanks."

"Of course."

And when her father finally walked out from the floor, leaving the beep of identity confirmation bounced in her skull, Rose Tyler sighed and tossed the file back to her desk, thudding her neck against her chair. She sighed, and thought: _yeah. Maybe I do need a night off_.

* * *

Nine hours.

Nine hours, she counted, the amount of time she spent sleeping for the past 48 hours. For the past _two_ days. She couldn't even remember the last time she ever felt fully refreshed when she woke up: felt as though the sun was greeting her warmly, the day kinder than the night before, the hour easy and relax. Of course she never _needed_ that considering the only time her brain accepted she was at peace was if she was with... if she was with the Doctor.

But that wasn't happening anytime soon, will it?

_Stop, Rose_. She gritted her teeth and grasped on her temple, cringing. This was a day night out. Spent sleeping.

Well, that was her initial plan anyway: sleeping in her crammed-up apartment that served no other purpose than to give herself a single bed which she rarely use, but desperately needed. But unfortunately, it was as though her legs had a mind of its own when she found herself stalking down the familiar road to the bar. _Okay_, she decided. _Maybe just a drink_.

"Tyler!"

The name didn't escape her, and she quickly snapped her attention to it. There, by a booth, sat her team. Owen wearing a smug grin when she skipped herself over to them. "Oh, so she _did_ have a life outside the office. How fascinating."

The sarcasm hit her more than it should. Rose pretended it didn't effect her; Gwen spat him. "Rose." She smiled, "Are you okay? You don't normally..."

"I know," Rose replied, mostly tired, flashing her a weak smile. "I just... I need a drink."

Owen snorted. "Don't we all?"

"You _always_ need a drink―" Gwen scoffed, though she held a teasing smile on her face, but Rose wasn't very sure that was the exact words she used. She joined the team at the booth, because though she preferred solitude, she supposed she's had enough of that. After all, it wasn't _that_ hard to tune off most of the group's conversation anyway, especially when she held a bottle of beer by her grip, her head swam with the memories she tried so hard from eating her alive.

_Oh, God_.

A twisted murder she received last month weren't as difficult to endure as this.

Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she _was_ depressed. No. Of course she was depressed. She was, the minute the Doctor left her. She could still remember her heavy heart weighing her down, keeping her on bed for days afterwards until Pete gave her this job. It took time to adjust after that, but there she was: working every time, every minute that sometimes she even skipped two meals a day. But she knew, the second she accepted the job, that it was perhaps the only way she could find solid access to the Doctor once again.

She knew she was depressed, but she also knew the key to stop it.

And that was why she needed to oversee every case. Something, _somewhere_― will lead her to the Doctor. She's certain.

But then again, it has been _eight_ months. Eight months, and she's still stuck in the same position. With no clue of anything whatsoever. Rose sighed.

"Hey, Tyler― are you listening to this?"

Rose blinked, shaken slightly as she realised that she was not the only one in the room. She cleared her throat and re-focused her attention. "What?"

"The Holmes news. It seemed that he solved another big case. He's greeting the living brilliantly." Owen continued, scrolling down the news on the screen of his phone, an impressed expression crossed his face.

Rose frowned. "Holmes? What Holmes?" _And why is greeting the living?_

"Oh come on, tell me you've at _least_ heard of him." Gwen continued, hiking one eyebrow.

_Yeah. Well. The closest thing she's heard of a Holmes was when the Doctor mentioned Sherlock Holmes. Merely a fictional character from a book, wasn't he?_ But they were talking about humans... weren't they? Rose pulled on her frown with a little more force. "Who?"

"Honestly, Rose―" Gwen exclaimed, surprised; a humourless smile bled over her face, painting over her expression.

By Rose's right, Tosh gave out a small smile. "Sherlock Holmes, and his companion, Dr. John Watson. An internet sensation― been one for a few years. He's supposedly committed suicide when he jumped off a hospital's rooftop after his secret was revealed: stating that he was a fake."

"Wait, wait― did you just say _Sherlock Holmes?_"

"The one and only." Owen whistled. "A consulting detective, apparently. I would comment that there isn't such thing, but there he is, the genius of the century, richer than the rest of us." He cocked his brows towards Rose and sneered, just a little, "Well― some of us right now, anyway."

Rose ignored that. "And― and _John Watson?_"

"_Dr_. John Watson." Tosh sipped on his drink, "Why? Do you know them?"

"No, I just―" Rose paused, brushing her thumb over her lips. _They're real_, something beeped in her mind. _The fictional characters were real_. At least they were in this world. In this universe. _The Doctor_...

Rose swallowed, "Can I, um― can I see the news, please?"

Owen hesitated, blinked. "Uh, yeah." He gave her his phone, "If you want to check their blogs, I think they put in the source right below..."

Rose nodded, her thumb immediately scrolling down the page, until she stopped at an image of man; pale-skinned, bright but serious eyes, high cheekbones, a tight frown carved upon his lips and the unmistaken dark, curly hair; one curl falling and touching his right brow. Rose paused on the picture, her eyes suddenly fixed on the image; her mind whirled, still adjusting to the brand new news.

_Sherlock Holmes is real_.

Maybe because Holmes was the closest (the most real) thing she has of the Doctor (of his many passion), or maybe because there's just something about the picture of him she was staring at ― but for the first time in a really long time: Rose Tyler grinned.

What do you know? Sherlock Holmes is real.

* * *

A month could passed by very quickly.

Just like the eight before ― but Rose tried not to ponder on that for too long. She felt lighter most days now, sometimes she even felt, well, _better_. Reading Dr. Watson's blog had become sort of a muse which pulled her momentarily out of her funk, and she liked it. And this was saying something considering reading mystery/crimes weren't usually one she preferred to do during her spare time. But she liked reading about Holmes.

She liked the knowledge that she's also taken a liking to something the Doctor was highly passionate about.

In fact, in her mind, Sherlock Holmes was the only single thread, albeit the thread is hardly noticeable, in this life of hers that connected solely to the Doctor. And though she knew it sounded desperate, it was the only thing, _right now_, she clung extremely hard to.

"Are you reading about Holmes again?" Tosh voiced out one day, when they just wrapped up a case that turned out to be nothing but a complete fake. Rose hated those type of cases― it wasn't just a proof that there were ridiculous people out there, but it also wasted a lot of her team's time (_hers_, in particular).

Rose lifted her eyes, munching on a chocolate bar (that tasted a little too bleak to be real chocolate in her opinion) and met Tosh's eyes. She could spot a soft smile tilted at the corner of the other woman's lips, and Rose allowed herself to mirror it. "Yeah, it's just... They're― very interesting."

"They are. They're good, you know." Tosh supplied, blowing on her hot coffee. "Holmes, especially."

"You know him?"

Tosh shook her head. "Not really. His brother, though..."

"Brother?"

"Mycroft." Tosh pursed her lips. "Pete bumped into him a couple of times. He didn't know about Torchwood, not what we're _really_ about. But he had his suspicion. And he's often correct. I wouldn't expect less of his little brother."

Rose didn't reply.

Tosh tried smiling again. "You're getting better."

"I'm sorry?" _That was an odd question_.

"People are afraid to mention it, but... you are. You looked better."

"Well, I've been getting a lot of needed sleep lately. And shower." She tried joking.

Tosh's smile didn't disappear. "Or maybe it's Holmes."

"What?"

"You've been better since you started reading Watson's blog. It's like... reading about him is your own therapy." Tosh offered, sipping onto her coffee; almost immediately, Rose noted of the tension leaving the other woman's body ― as though the liquid was her personal calming pill. Maybe it was. "Maybe you should meet him."

Rose blinked, baffled: "What?"

"Holmes. Meet him in person." Tosh shrugged, "He's changed many lives. Perhaps he's destined to change yours too."

"I don't know about that."

"There's a lot of things we don't know, Rose." Tosh hummed. "Doesn't mean we shouldn't find out."

* * *

_Better_. That word echoed in her skull. Okay, she admitted: maybe after she started taking an interest in Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson's lives, she had been less guarded around her goal to search for a way onto reaching the Doctor, but that didn't mean anything, could it? Maybe it's just about the mysteries she read from Dr. Watson's blog that breathed the sense of adventure back into her lungs, that brought a smile onto her face― because the idea of them out there, _alive_, and roaming about and _real_ was enthralling, was great, was exceptional.

It was, more than anything, _hopeful_.

And that was why, Rose decided, she was better. Because Holmes and Watson have both gave her hope.

Something she thought she lost.

* * *

When the insane message cut off all the television station all over the world, Rose was working on a case. She's with Tosh, trying to decode a message for a case that should have been solved a few hours ago. Their floor was offline, and Owen had went for a quick breather (and maybe three cups of fresh coffee at Starbucks across the road for them) when every screen ― excepting the main one Tosh was using, Thank God ― lit up.

It flickered, at first; made those annoying noises that every telly made whenever it lost signals, before a picture began to form.

Tosh was pissed off, a little, because she's really tired and she wanted very badly to just finish with decoding before her fingers typed furiously against the keyboard, muttering out, "Dammit. I can't cut this off. I mean, I _can_― but that would take ages―and oh. Great. We're not the only one seeing this."

"What do you mean?" Rose forced her eyes from the screen to momentarily look at Tosh.

"It's viewing all over the world." Tosh told. "Right now. This instant."

"Who's―"

_Miss me? Miss me? Miss me?_

Rose stared, frowned. "Who's that?"

"Wait..." Tosh frowned, and then: "That's Moriarty."

"Moriarty?" That name echoed when Rose whispered it. "Moriarty." She repeated, "Isn't that― isn't he―"

"Dead? I really don't know, Rose." She shrugged. "It won't be the first."

_No, it won't_. Rose frowned, stared at the screen and stood up. Her eyes fixed on the man's sinister and distorted face as the screen flickered again, and Rose held her disgust with a neutral expression, albeit her teeth were clenching together. _Moriarty_. That name bounced back in her skull, like a warning that she didn't want to receive. The tension knotted at the back of her muscle. _Sherlock Holmes_' _supposedly dead enemy_.

"Rose?"

Rose picked up on her remaining effect to look calm, though her nerves were challenged. "I need you to send me every detail you have on Moriarty. Everything. Right from his birth, his parents, where he grew up, every aliases he's been, what he's done, who he's involved with― _everything_." When she turned to only see Tosh gawking up at her, Rose restrained a frustrated sigh from escaping. "Now, Agent."

Tosh nodded, and turned to the main screen; her fingers typing in without any hesitation lingering by.

_An order is an order_.

Sometimes it was good to be in a higher position, Rose dwelled.

* * *

She got every piece of information there was an hour later, right after they've finished decoding. Tosh didn't question her motives, and Rose was glad.

* * *

A few days later, she requested for a three-week leave. She packed light.

"Where _exactly_ did you say you were going?" Pete asked, frowning.

Rose threw him a polite smile over her shoulder, adjusting her sling bag. "Away."

Before he could ask more questions, she cleared the destination in her head once again, her determination stronger than she ever felt. The GPS in her advanced phone bleeped and buzzed in her hand, and she smirked down at the screen:

_221B Baket Street_.

...

**End Note: 3,407 words (for future ****references). Emma, I'M WATCHING YOU. Oh yeah, and I made Rose addressed both Sherlock and John by their surname as a nod towards Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's work― he used surnames in his fictions; I read― though hopefully, this will change soon. May be edited in the near future. Thank you for the read, and review please, if you have the time.**


	2. Sherlock

**Disclaimer**: Everything belongs to their rightful owner(s).  
**Pairing**: Sherlock/Rose, side-John/Mary.  
**Genre**: Drama, Romance, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Adventure.  
**World/Story Setting**: Post Season 3 [BBC Sherlock], post-Doomsday & in Pete's world (parallel universe) [Doctor Who]  
**Rating**: PG-13/T.  
**Summary**: What do you know? Sherlock Holmes is real. And Rose Tyler is determined to meet him.  
**Musical Inspiration**: "Learn Me Right" from _Brave_ soundtracks, sung by Birdy ft. Mumford & Sons. When in doubt, turn to Disney soundtracks? Pretty much.  
**Crime Plot Inspiration**: "Red-Headed League Man" in the original _Sherlock Holmes series_ by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

**Author's Note**: 5, 915 words. Gonna say, I've struggled a little bit with this chapter. But I wanted to tackle my worst fear, so here I am. Still standing (though now I think I'm only _half_ standing because it's 3:30AM where I am and I swear to you I could just fall right now and _sleep _and yes it's bad because I HAVE SCHOOL TOMORROW like what am I even doing here?). I love the probability of Sherlock/Rose so much though, and can I just have them right now? Like, _please?_ And Benedict Cumberbatch and Billie Piper are like one of the most flawless people ever and I'm just, like, a full-on fangirl right now okay.

In any case, the reviews I've gotten are such dear to me. Thank you. And EMMA: LOOK, I UPDATED. HECK YEAH CHEERS FOR ME. But seriously though, I appreciate it so much of your time and effort to give this fiction a chance. It makes my RoseLock heart swells in joy. It really does. You guys are such lovely people.

* * *

**SECOND. _SHERLOCK_**.

* * *

Rose watched over her shoulders while she walked into the apartment, the landlady towed behind closely.

"You could just wait here, dear. I'm sure Sherlock will be home any moment now. He already texted me to make him some tea, that unbelievable young man." Muttered the landlady more, frustration lines covered her ageing face. Rose wasn't really sure what was the most appropriate way to act considering she's just met the old lady approximate a minute ago― she couldn't just _say_ that she was willing to assist her on preparing the tea, or perhaps offer her a company, considering by the looks on her face that this wasn't the first time Holmes pulled a trick like this and Rose really took pity― but she gave out her best smile nevertheless, hoping that it wouldn't sour the mood.

The landlady smiled back― wide and comforting― nodding in acknowledgement, as though she detected her uneasiness and understood her awkward position. "Well, if you'll need anything in the meantime, I'll be downstairs. Making tea."

"Of course." Rose nodded her head, her eyes kind. "Thank you, um—"

"It's Mrs. Hudson, dear." She called back, a kind of motherly warmth flickered in her eyes, and Rose found herself smiling just a tad wider, this time more sincere.

"Mrs. Hudson." She repeated under her breath, as though testing the name, and confirming the information to herself. _Mrs. Hudson_. A nice old woman, but too gullible, perhaps. With just a few quick knocks and polite smiles, the older woman had already granted her access to the ever so great Sherlock Holmes' apartment, under the assumption that Rose was another desperate client, though she never said anything of such, just a simple — "I'd like to see Sherlock Holmes, please."

She wondered if she should mention this to Holmes.

Rose let her eyes wandered about, but only that. She didn't move — didn't want to — but she re-adjusted the sling bag she had across her chest, flicking away a few strain of stubborn blonde hair out of her sight. _Holmes_. That name thudded in her skull as she tried to recap anything at all of the Holmes that the Doctor usually went on about, the fictional one. _It's weird_, she thought in between, feeling all of her limbs and muscles all free from any sort of duty forcing her to act on the spot.

It was weird shedding all of her work away from her body — _all of Torchwood_ — and just stood there, like a girl without any solid purpose whatsoever...

Wait.

_Dammit_, Rose gritted her teeth, displaying her fingers across her forehead as realisation dawned over her: she _didn't_ have any solid purpose whatsoever, coming here. She remembered spending nights studying all of the reports Tosh had gotten her over Moriarty, the hours remained spent with Tosh's comment of "_you should meet him_" eating away on her rational thoughts until she decided that she finally needed a trip to Baker Street. Now that she was here, she had _no_ idea what she's truly doing.

Rose Tyler blinked, the cruel reality at long last seeped in.

_She should go_, she decided, turning on her heels, trying not to let panic coloured every passing thoughts which were crossing her mind. At least, not yet. Rose took a deep breath and stepped forward, until—

The main door to the whole flat opened with a loud thud, and an undoubtedly male voice intoned, worry laced in his words:

"—still has nothing on Moriarty."

Rose felt her heart leaped to her throat, her step stopped with one foot forward, barely touching the floor as her lips opened in a small gap, her mind reeled, unconsciously waiting for a reply though there was none. It wasn't until she heard Mrs. Hudson's hushed voice interrupting the men about a "client waiting upstairs" that Rose finally gathered herself and straightened down on her leather jacket, swallowing any bits of courage she must have left sprawling when she realised how stupid she's been.

_There's no use of it now_, she ran her tongue over her upper lips: she's here, and there's nothing she could do to change it.

Inhaling deeply, Rose almost missed the heavy footsteps climbing up the stairs, straight to where _she_ was ― and when she looked up, there _he_ was, staring intently back at her. He tipped his chin back, his bright eyes never left her figure, when Dr. Watson came up behind, finally now taking her in.

Almost out of habit, Rose smiled. "You must be Sherlock Holmes." Her eyes landed on the wandering eyes of Dr. Watson, dipping her head once, "And Dr. John Watson." She finally returned her stare on the famous consulting detective, her smile somehow stretched just a little wider. "It's nice to meet you."

It was Dr. Watson who first stumbled into the apartment and shook her hand, a kind smile graced his worn face. "It's nice to meet you too, uh, Miss...?"

Rose lets a few beats passed, the hanging sentence barely registered, when: "It's Rose." She blinked. "Rose Tyler."

"Rose," the doctor contemplated it, her name sounded gentle ― _friendly_ ― when it rolled off his tongue, and he smiled again, while all the time Holmes had moved passed from his initial spot to hang his scarf as well as his coat, approaching an armchair sat near the fireplace, passing them as he went on. "Take a seat, please."

"Uh, actually―"

"Can I borrow a phone?" A deep voice cut in, sharp and clear. Rose turned to Holmes, who had his back mostly on her, while he pretended to fold a blanket on his armchair.

"What?" Watson muttered, confused.

"Phone. Can I borrow it?" He finally faced them, generally looking at the two of them expectantly.

"Where's yours?"

"I've misplaced it." Holmes answered easily, as though it was everyday's routine to lose a mobile phone― and then: _it probably was_, Rose pondered, just briefly. He put the folded blanket at the head of the armchair, all neatly and warm-looking, before turning back to them once again, a kind of polite smile itched on his pale though handsome face. Rose watched on carefully. "Phone?"

Watson finally sighed next to her, mumbling incoherently under his breath while his hands searched for the device. Rose unconsciously pressed harder on where her phone was, tucked safely within her pocket ― when the doctor finally exclaimed, "I don't― I swear I had it with me a second ago―" Watson sighed out, humming softly, his brows furrowed. "Maybe I've left it―" He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose frustratingly and forced out a smile towards Rose, "Excuse me."

Rose nodded, just when he turned on his heel and left.

Sherlock watched on, and from the corner of Rose's eyes, she couldn't detect any obvious emotions beating across his face.

"So, Miss Tyler, was it?" He'd turned to take a sit on his armchair, and Rose awkwardly stepped forward, now shifting from foot to foot, her senses perked with the knowledge that she was now alone with Holmes. He squinted his eyes up at her, almost dangerously, before he drawled it out: "You're not here for a case."

She blinked, mouth slightly agape.

"You're not a client." He concluded again, his tone harsh and aggressively direct.

Just when Rose was about to open her mouth, came Dr. Watson barging in, anger spreading over his features when he stared up at Holmes, eyebrows raised. "It's with you, isn't it?"

Holmes feigned innocence, tapping his index finger on the arms on his chair once, dragging his gaze away. "It might have been in the pocket of my coat."

"I suppose you won't be explaining to me how it got there?" Dr. Watson grumbled, now going through the coat.

Sherlock didn't answer, as he only leaned back against his chair, looking somewhat tensed yet calm all at the same time, ignoring his friend's question completely. Dr. Watson murmured quiet apologies under his breath when he walked over after safely retrieving the phone, readying himself to take a seat across from the consulting detective; Holmes kept a firm gaze on her from the corner of his eyes, Watson cleared his throat. "So, what seems to be the problem?"

"She's not a client," quipped Holmes coolly, joining his hands on the middle and tapping his fingers together.

Watson blinked. "What?" His brows furrowed, finally now facing her. "Y-you're not?"

Rose managed a smile, feeling sorry that she gave a false impression to the doctor, who looked so genuine to her, more so now that she's seeing him in real life, and not an image presented at the side of his blog. "No," she decided to answer. "I'm not... I'm not here for a case."

_Okay_. She could almost made out Dr. Watson's confused thoughts, before he nodded his head and faced her again. "Why are you here then?"

"I'm―" _Shit_. Rose blinked, hesitated and pursed a smile. _Why_ was she here again? She shook her head and forced her stare away, biting the corner of her lips. She had _no_ idea why was she here. And she couldn't just― she couldn't just _leave_ right now. It would certainly brought unnecessary speculation over the real intention she came here, and people will begin to search more into where she came from, and Rose Tyler didn't need that. She _definitely_ didn't need that.

"You're...?" Watson trailed off, clearly expecting some sort of an answer.

_Think, Rose_. _Think!_ Rose blinked. "I'm here to become your apprentice."

"What?"

Too quick. She'd answered it too quick. Rose took a deep breath and rearranged her sentences, trying to keep her uncertainty from blurring out the weak reason she just gave out. She tried to smile, just to calm the nerves that's starting to twist from under her epidermis, "I mean―" she swallowed and exhaled, "I'm here to become Sherlock Holmes' apprentice. If that's fine."

"Sherlock's... apprentice...?" Dr. Watson seemed even more confused. "Why?"

She didn't know either.

Rose shrugged.

Holmes curiously looked up to her, his eyes taking her in, his brows pinching in a serious kind of determination, one she wouldn't fathom to interrupt but brave enough to stare back. He dragged his eyes elsewhere, portraying an image of disinterest, "I already have Billy to entertain. What makes you so special?"

_Arrogant little git, isn't he?_ Rose clicked her tongue.

Watson frowned, "But... Billy hasn't joined us since Christmas."

"Hasn't he?" Holmes' brows quirked together, just slightly. "Then who has been making me tea?"

"Who do you _think?_" A foreign voice interrupted and Rose quickly spun her head to watch Mrs. Hudson making her way in, putting the tray of teas on top of the table. "Honestly Sherlock, I am _not_ your housekeeper. And how many times have I told you to clean up this mess, oh gosh." The older woman cringed, pushing away a few of the scattered newspapers crumpled on the table.

"Are you quite certain, Mrs. Hudson?" Holmes hummed, standing up, tugging on his shirt once.

"_Yes!_" Mrs. Hudson hissed, her eyes glared in the typical fashion of a mother scolding her stubborn child and Rose tried to keep herself from smiling too much. The older woman eventually turned to her, her expression quickly softened, "And how are you holding up, dear? I hope the boys haven't caused you too much of a headache."

"Oh, they've been a complete gentlemen, thank you." Rose returned, smiling kindly.

"Gentlemen." Mrs. Hudson snorted, patting Rose's arm. "I hope whatever troubles you will be sorted out soon, dear."

Rose nodded her head again, too polite to correct the older woman and smiled, "Thank you."

With that, Mrs. Hudson left, and she turned her attention back to watch Watson's raising a curious eyebrow to her while Holmes was stirring his tea, his stance giving out a cool image. "I see you've made quite an impression on Mrs. Hudson." Holmes noted, and Rose fought the urge to roll her eyes then and there.

"So you were saying you wanted to be Sherlock's apprentice? Why?" Dr. Watson intervened, ignoring Holmes' statement completely, wearing a mask of someone who's outstandingly confused. "I mean... what _compelled_ you to think that he was ever..." He gestured towards his friend, his confusion deepening while Holmes stared back, frowning, somewhat offended.

"I, well―" Rose began, knowing now she had to make up excuses to back up on her first lie. She suppressed a sigh. "Sherlock Holmes. Big name, yeah? Being a genius and all." She tried smiling without causing terrible aches to her cheekbones, gesturing lamely at Holmes. "I mean, who _wouldn't_ want to be his apprentice? It's... always been a... _dream_ of mine, honestly. To become Sherlock Holmes' apprentice."

Watson appeared unconvinced. "Are you sure?"

Holmes snorted. "Besides from you pathetic attempt to lie, Ms. Tyler." He smoothly intoned, his bright eyes meeting hers. "What makes you think I would easily take you under my wings?"

She nearly rolled her eyes. _Nearly_. Rose scoffed though, only lightly. "I believe the right answer to that question is, Mr. Holmes―" She gave him her signature grin, that felt too old now it's carved back upon her lips, but mischievous enough that she didn't mind it as much when her reply rolled off her tongue, urging a wolfish grin to just attack and frame her expression. But she knew better. Her brows hiked up, as though she knew it would somehow challenge him― "Why not?"

A beat, before Sherlock Holmes snorted, the corner of his lips tilted into, what must be, a hint of a smirk, his eyes dangerously narrowing down to focus on her and it was only then did Rose realised of their close proximity. Sherlock Holmes hummed, and took a step back, a cup of tea in his hand.

"What time is it, John?" Holmes voiced out, as though trying to distract himself away, even is it's just briefly, from focusing on her, and Rose didn't know whether to sigh out in relief or feel offended. Mostly, she just wanted to lie down.

Suddenly, she felt _so_ tired.

"I do believe Lestrade has gathered the company I've requested." Holmes went on when the doctor gave out the time. "Come on, then. We've got no time to waste."

"What? Now?" Watson appeared dissatisfied. "But we just got here."

Holmes only gave his friend a sharp look, a hint of annoyance lingering by in his stare.

"Oh, alright. Fine." The good doctor huffed, standing up. "Can I at least have a cup of tea?" He wondered aloud, a little sarcastically, following with movements which obviously reflected that it wasn't exactly a question he needed an answer to. He stumbled on his steps as he caught up to Rose, his expression softened, "Um, Rose, I'm sorry, but I'm afraid—"

"_What_ do you think you're doing?" Holmes yelped from the doorway, shrugging on his coat while Watson stared back, baffled. "She's coming with us."

"She's— she's _what?_" Watson was ultimately confused, that was sure. The poor doctor turned to Rose, just for a second, as if he's checking if this were all a game, before he returned to stare at his best friend. "I thought—"

"You thought wrong." Holmes merely said, his eyes leering back to her. "Coming?"

It took Rose a moment to rationalise the simple question, the way he's looking expectantly at her, the whole situation of it all basically, but as soon as her brain wrapped around the idea of it, her smile grew— and she could've sworn she felt a rush of heat blossoming over her cheeks, warming up her inside. It's... _enthralling_. There was just _something_ about this man who's waiting for her, the promise of unexpected adventures behind his offer. She'd been here before, didn't she? With the Doctor.

But the Doctor's not here now, Rose snapped, in a beat, realising where she really was.

_No, he's not_.

But Holmes was. So she nodded and passed her tongue over her teeth, dipping her head once to breathe out a quiet, amused chuckle before her eyes shifted over the famous consulting detective again, grinning: "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

And honest to God, she wouldn't.

* * *

"Here you are!" Lestrade huffed, clearly dissatisfied. "Might I remind you that this is entirely out of my division―"

"Oh, save it Lestrade. As if I haven't heard it all before," snorted Holmes, striding in with firm and quick steps ― not a moment wasted, not a second late ― and taking on a random file on the older man's desk. Rose quickly followed behind, her steps didn't oozed confidence like Holmes did, but it was steady enough that she was sure her abrupt presence wouldn't look so... out of place. It was also helpful that Watson was willing to slow down his pace to make sure she wasn't falling behind, not that she ever intended to. "Is he here?"

"The man you asked me to call?" Lestrade snatched the file right from the famous consulting detective's hands, glaring. "Yes. He's right outside," he pointed to a thin man with a gloom face, accompanied by what seemed to be a bodyguard― what, with his official black suit and shades. Rose wasn't an expert in deduction, sure, but the earpiece the man wore clearly gave his position away.

"And did he bring what I asked him to bring?" Holmes passed a glance, his voice came out monotone.

"Yes, and seriously, Sherlock, for the last time, this is _not_ my division so you couldn't just―" His eyes fell slightly to the back and Lestrade frowned, pausing. "Wait." Rose finally took in that he was looking at her. The older man frowned even more so, turning to Sherlock. "Who is she? Honestly, Sherlock! You can't keep bringing strangers you've just met and started bringing them about on your investigations―"

"She's―" Holmes hid his irritation miserably. "She's not _strangers_."

"Oh? She's not?"

Holmes chanced her quick gaze, one swift glance from head to toe. "She's clearly my bodyguard."

Even Watson snorted out a chock, surprised. Lestrade's jaw dropped. Rose raised her eyebrows, intrigued mostly. She passed a side-glance view towards Watson, perhaps trying to determine if this was truly not some kind of sham she's apart of, but knowing that somehow she should just went along with it. When she tilted her chin and dropped her eyes on Holmes, it seemed as though he was already bored of the whole conversation. "She's obviously military-trained, but not quite a military herself. A secret service? Most likely. Been in field works countless times, high probability she's a workaholic nursing to a relationship that's expectantly been broken off. Very obvious. She's currently carrying two weapons with her as we speak, a gun and a taser. And, may I add, she's extremely skilled at using those and will not hesitate on demonstrating it so _Gerald_―"

"Greg."

"Greg." Holmes corrected himself casually, as though he'd done nothing wrong in the first place. "May I please see the bank director, please?"

"I'll go get him." Lestrade said through gritted teeth after a few beating seconds, lines of frustration wrinkling on his face while he nodded and went pass the consulting detective. Near his way out, he paused, and gave Rose a polite nod. "Greg. Lestrade. S'nice to meet you."

"Rose. Tyler. It's nice to meet you too." Rose flashed him her best smile― and the older man looked surprised somewhat, suggesting how he didn't expect her to smile like she did, but there was the truth, and it lied on her lips and gradually, the Detective Inspector carved a half of a smile himself, his act brimmed human kindness.

Once he's out of the room, Rose caught the way Watson pursed his lips, taking a step forward. "What are we doing here again?"

"Possible robbery." Holmes announced with a clip, his eyes dragging to follow Lestrade's every move as he invited the thin, old man and watched as the man sent out some instructions to his bodyguard. It wasn't long after that, that he had his eyes back on her, his mouth set in a straight line. "Was I right?"

Rose turned to him. "What?"

"The deductions." He pointed out briskly. "Was I right? Did I get anything wrong?"

She smiled at that, some of it even as a mock towards his arrogance, but mostly she was truly impressed. "No. You got it right." She told him, her mouth stretching a little bit further, then faltered just slightly as she recalled one line from what he said. _Nursing to a relationship that's expectantly been broken off_. She pressed her lips together, pondering, before: "So, I'm your new bodyguard, yeah?"

"It seems so." He watched her with critical eyes, humming.

At least that's a new job. _Perhaps an even easier one_.

Rose shrugged her shoulders.

"Military?" Watson asked, from her side.

She raised her brows for a second, confused by the sudden question until― "Oh." She smiled, and then: "No. Not like you are, doctor. I'm just... _trained_ as such, as Mr. Holmes pointed out."

Watson appeared nonchalant, "Yeah. He's often correct." He nodded, though he didn't look all too sincere. "It's annoying."

Rose immediately grinned at that ― wide and big ― as her eyes matched with Watson's, reflecting glee, a new type of familiarity quickly settling itself with her skin. _She could get used to this_, she thought, when she snuck a glance at a clearly annoyed Holmes, before he glowered out, "Did you just refer to me as the third person while I'm in the room?"

"Sherlock." Lestrade's voice caught all of their attention. "This is Peter Jones. He'll be the head of the operation."

Jones was a stocky-built man, and smelled heavily of cigar. Rose quickly scrunched up her nose, taking a step behind when he crossed over, outstretching his hands to Holmes. The consulting detective gave a once-over, blinked and responded, "How fitting."

"Sherlock." Dr. Watson warned, before he himself shook hands with Jones. Rose, naturally, found herself quickly next to Holmes, especially now since Jones looked comfortable idling near Watson. She could feel when Holmes passed her a look, perplexed at her sudden presence near him, but he didn't move. After all, it wasn't as though she was _intruding_ into his personal space. Or at least, she didn't think so. The thin old man came next, his bodyguard lingering outside.

"This is Mr. Merryweather, the bank director." Lestrade introduced, gesturing. "Mr. Merryweather. This is Sherlock Holmes. He's the one who requested you."

"And my blueprint." Stated Mr. Merryweather critically; narrow, squinty eyes staring up at Holmes, who was so much taller than him.

"I believe you brought them."

"As you wish, sir." Mr. Merryweather held up his briefcase. "It's all in here."

"Excellent." Holmes replied, satisfied. Taking on the briefcase, Holmes thudded it against the wide table, with all the clear intention of opening it up. Everybody began to crowd around it, Rose crammed up closely next to the consulting detective, although by then he hadn't care to give a second thought, his focus zeroing on the case. She watched. "The French gold. It is safe delivered, I assume?" Holmes suddenly asked, without breaking his movement. "Mr. Merryweather?"

"You knew?" The old man wondered, completely surprised.

"Of course I knew. Everybody who's able to read knew. It's all over the internet." Holmes snapped irritably. "There's always a leak. Always."

The briefcase popped.

"So, wait." Watson interrupted, "The possible robbery, are you saying―"

"They're targeting the gold, yes. In fact, they've been targeting the gold for months." Holmes began, spreading out the papers of blueprints. "John Clay." He said the name once, with a clear tone of each syllables. He tilted his chin momentarily to lock eyes with Jones, and then: "He's the one who's in charge of this. Wanted in three countries so far; five murders, nine illegal arm trades, and so many frauds in between. That's the man you'd want to catch, Jones. _Tonight_."

"Tonight?" Jones asked dumbly.

"No, next year. Of course tonight!" Holmes rolled his eyes, "Hah. There it is." He pointed towards a blueprint of an underground tunnels, right under the bank, and Rose slowly studied the details and the lines which ran under his finger as he brushed his skin over the paper. "This is where they will strike, and this is where your team will be. The whole perimeter should be covered, no leaks." Holmes then stayed quiet, his eyes roamed over the sketches. "But Clay will be smart... He won't stay there... He's..."

The famous consulting detective smirked, a glint of victory crossed over his pale features. "We'll catch him tonight."

"We?" Watson asked, eyebrows hiking up.

"Of course. Jones, Lestrade, you, me and Ms. Tyler."

"The girl?" Jones' deep voice dropped in. Rose eyed him.

"Yes," Holmes cut in, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Is there a problem?"

"I, uh― no. Of course not." Jones quickly covered up, shaking his head.

"It settles then." Holmes concluded, dropping his gaze back on the blueprint and began calculating the perfect time for the robbery to take place, and the approximate position they should be in. And Rose? She merely followed. For now.

* * *

Holmes took them to an entirely different place, but it was dark and it stank.

Rose cringed her nose as she settled in with her handgun, her phone still tucked in her pocket. Holmes was by her one side, Watson on his other one. Lestrade was commenting about how he shouldn't be here, and was returned with a rude retort from Holmes saying somewhere along the lines of, "As if you're here by force."

"I _was!_" Lestrade exclaimed, grabbing tight on his gun.

"Ladies." Watson warned, taking a brief moment to pinch the bridge of his nose. "We're tracking down a wanted man here."

"And Rose. Are you honestly Sherlock's bodyguard?" Lestrade clearly ignored Holmes hushed to stay quiet, but kept his volume low enough that it wouldn't effect the whole operation. From Lestrade's right, Jones followed quietly, his eyes on alert, though his face appeared clueless for the most part.

"I am."

"She is." Holmes hissed, eyes wide at Lestrade.

"Is she?" The Detective Inspector focused on Watson, searching for the doctor's eyes.

Rose watched as Watson sighed, seemingly to grow tired of the little banters. "She is."

"She is?" Lestrade echoed.

"I really am," Rose pressed on, trying convince the poor Detective Inspector, as well as herself. She didn't know if she was fitted to be a bodyguard to _anyone_, but if that's what Sherlock Holmes wanted of her on that moment, she guessed she would go along. See where it leads. It was quite enjoyable, to be honest. It was as though she was still doing her job, without _actually_ doing her job. Wasn't that the dream?

And then, there was foreign noises.

Rose liked to describe that it happened way too quick. One moment Holmes was snapping at Jones when he stumbled on a pebble and nearly shot his own face, the next there was a hand tugging her from behind roughly, intending on bringing her down. Rose thought on her feet. Months of cooping up with... the constant _madness_ over searching for the Doctor has led her to be extra aggressive on the fields; it was as though every punch made was another frustrated nerve untangled from her body, and every kick she swung was another hour feeling trapped and enclosed and chained released from her system. Sometimes, she needed that.

So, Rose moved.

They were near a wall, and Rose quickly took advantage of it as she ran towards it, for a moment betraying physics when her sole met the said wall and she flipped herself back, tackling the attacker down. Still had a hold of her, Rose elbowed the man right on his shoulder blades, granting her immediate release from her grip as he yelped in pain, and giving her advantage to push herself up and took his gun, using it to shoot at an on-coming attacker.

By the time she realised it was all over, she had five men dropped to the floor and she was finally able to register that _this was not_ _Torchwoood_. She wouldn't be able to vent out her frustration over beating up creatures, human or not, and was still expected to be seen as "normal" afterwards. Her bloodied knuckles hurt when she looked up, and her stomach sank, just a little, when she caught Watson and Lestrade's shocked face, while Holmes just stared at first, until a small, knowing smirk carved on his lips ― his eyes lit up in a sneaky manner, surprisingly holding out the same amount of brightness even if the blanket of darkness fell heavy on all of them.

"I told you she's my bodyguard."

Rose couldn't resist it ― she chuckled out a breath, and grinned.

* * *

When they reached back to the apartment, it was silence. Rose was sure if a pin was dropped, she would have heard it. The whole world would have. But there was no pin. There was just the steady padded of his shoes against the pavement, and hers treading behind.

It was all Dr. Watson's idea. While bandaging up Rose's bruising knuckles, he'd asked her where she was staying and finding out that she had no idea where, he had insisted that there were only one place to be ― _221B Baker Street_. Especially then when he checked the time and discovered that it was nearing three in the morning. In fact, Rose could still recall, his words had been, "Oh, no. That's it. You're going home with Sherlock. You can sleep on his bed. He rarely uses it anyway."

Surprisingly, it didn't take long to convince Holmes, which took both Watson and Rose by surprise, but since he'd already agreed, they didn't ask further questions, though Rose tried to press that she really was okay on her own. She had always been, for nine months now. What's another night?

But here she was, following Holmes up the steps. "You've been quiet, Ms. Tyler." He said, out of the blue, tone rich in that kind of smoothness that in her hazy state, sent shivers up her spine. She shuddered, but didn't bleach out her smile, throwing it his way when he looked over his shoulder, straight at her.

Her steps were lazy, she realised. And she was so, _so_ tired. "I have? I must be getting used to being your bodyguard still." She chuckled lowly, trying to catch his bright eyes. "I'll... take the couch, yeah?"

He only hummed, his movements careful.

Rose watched, suspicion attacked her conscious, but she wouldn't let paranoia took hold of her now. That was, until at the top of the stairs, Holmes paused, just when they stepped into his living room, half of his face turned to her as he said, barely a whisper, "Duck."

Holmes swung.

There was suddenly a stick on his hand, to which he must have got a hold to when he walked in, the stick must be by the door because she could confirm that it wasn't anywhere near him before and now he's aiming it at her. Her flight or fight came and go, and her body chose fight when she ducked, took hold of his swinging and thrust her other elbow right at his ribs. Holmes was quick ― no, he _anticipated_ the move ― so he smirked when she did it, and blocked it with a swift kick to her knee, knocking her off balance, missing her target.

But Rose caught herself quick, when she regained her balance a second later, sprang up behind him and was about to blow him with another swing of her elbow when he merely directed it away with pressing his palm against her elbow and targeting it elsewhere. Her other punch though, did touch made contact with his body, but Holmes barely grunted ― her next mission was clear though: eliminate his weapon, the damn stick.

She couldn't even bring herself to think _why_ he was doing this, not when he just kept on attacking her.

And then, they were just... _sparring_. A punch after the other, a dodge after a missed kick, a quick breath between blinking. And then, somehow, he's had the stick again (she managed to make him dropped it in between it all) and he was pressing it against her throat, and his breath was hot on her jaw. His eyes went over her face, and she bravely met his stare. "I won, Rose Tyler."

She rolled her eyes, still collecting oxygen, though a tired smirk began to crawl upon her lips now. "It's a game, then?"

He lets go of the stick, breathing heavily too, taking a step back. "A test."

"A test?" She her mouth with the back of her hand, panting. "Did I pass?"

He threw the stick away dismissively, now smoothening down on his suit. "Good night, Ms. Tyler."

"Goodnight, Mr. Holmes." She collapsed on the couch, the whole weight of the day finally settling in over her body. She rubbed her sweaty face ― _damn him!_ ― and toppled her chin over the base of her palm, tilting her head to one side, a worn smile placed over her face. "Don't let the bed bugs bite, yeah?"

He didn't respond.

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And she thought, Holmes may not be the Doctor, _at all_―  
but she still wouldn't miss him for the world

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(and somewhere between falling asleep, and dreaming―  
she saw the single thread of line she had with the Doctor shone,  
then it vanished and it's just _falling_)

and Rose felt sick.

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The first thing she woke up to was a pair of bright, serious eyes.


	3. Tea

**Disclaimer**: Everything belongs to their rightful owner(s).  
**Pairing**: Sherlock/Rose, side-John/Mary.  
**Genre**: Drama, Romance, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Adventure.  
**World/Story Setting**: Post Season 3 [BBC Sherlock], post-Doomsday & in Pete's world (parallel universe) [Doctor Who]  
**Rating**: PG-13/T.  
**Summary**: What do you know? Sherlock Holmes is real. And Rose Tyler is determined to meet him.  
**Musical Inspiration**: "_Gypsy_" by Shakira (because it's fun, and it reminds me of Rose).**  
**

**Author's Note**: 2,587 words. So, we've got a short chapter where Rose is half-naked, Sherlock's being a rotten genius and tea being the main subject. I swear to God this update just wrote itself up. _Gah_. And yeah, maybe I had a little fun towards the end― because _ROSELOCK_. (Please join me into fangirling with them because I am desperate. _Pretty please?_)

* * *

**THIRD. _TEA_.**

* * *

The first thing she woke up to was a pair of bright, serious eyes.

Filling up her field of vision, _inches_ away from her face. She gasped aloud, out of shock mostly, and immediately sat up. Holmes, who had been, as what it appeared to be, _observing_ her quite intently (and _very closely_) only straightened his back from leaning in as he was a second ago, appearing insouciant and unfazed by the simple fact that he was ― and he _did_ ― breached some kind of personal privacy. In fact, he looked angry that she moved. Dissatisfied.

"God. _Holmes_." She breathed out, evening out her breaths as soon as she got over the initial shock. She toppled her forehead against her palms, and gathered her thoughts. _Right_, she heard a voice that sounded awfully like Jack chuckled. _You're not in your apartment now― should've expect a freakin' consulting detective to stare you down as the first thing you wake up to_. She shook her head.

"You were muttering." Holmes moved, stepping on his coffee table to cross the room, huffing.

"What?" She whispered out, confused, finally tilting her chin up to catch his gaze. He didn't give her the satisfaction.

"You were muttering." He repeated, clearly frustrated. "In your sleep. You were having nightmares." He shook his head then, eyes anywhere but at her, gazing around the room as though somewhere in a corner he missed, he'd find an answer he desperately needed. "But based on the subtle dark circles under your eyes, it is not a foreign occurrences. The wrinkles also suggested you don't have a normal sleeping pattern― either you can't sleep, or you sleep too much. Lately, it's the latter. And when you do sleep, nightmares follow; your entanglement with your recent, long-term relationship didn't end well and you're deeply affected. Too... _haunted_." Holmes whispered the last word, his gaze ended up to the window and whatever scenery it held. He looked thoughtful, the last word sounded as though he's re-considering it out, and somehow, in the middle of it all, Rose thought he looked... well, confused.

But the moment passed too soon because Rose didn't need the famous consulting detective's deductions ruined her morning when she frowned, gnawed on her inner cheeks. "How..." She stopped, considered the question and started anew. "Did you get any sleep at all?"

Holmes merely looked offended, his frown deepened. "Sleep is for the weak."

"Sleep is a necessity." She stood up, stretching her still-sleeping limbs.

"It slows me down."

"And you need to race everything out, why?" She asked, one eyebrow raised, and realised that though Holmes may stood way too tall for an average human being and held one of the prettiest face she's seen (yup, she's sticking with _pretty_), he's mostly appeared like a spoilt, brilliant child expected to have his wishes granted by a simple snap of his fingers and quip of orders. Well, unfortunately for him, she didn't came all down from Torchwood to become his new puppet, dancing at his every rude instructions. No matter if she _was_ hired to be his bodyguard. She doubted he'll even remember to pay her.

She could see a muscle on his cheekbones twitched. "Tea," he muttered, and then, blared out: "MRS. HUDSON! WHERE'S MY MORNING TEA?"

"Oh no. _No_." Rose came out to him then, steps defiant, and eyes glaring. "You are not ordering your landlady like that. If you want your morning tea, you can march yourself to the kitchen and make it well yourself. She is not your housekeeper, and you do _not_ pay her to clean up whatever childish tantrum you're pulling―"

"I don't _pull_ a tantrum."

She chortled out an empty snort. "You don't?"

He ignored her. "And it's not― _childish_," he scrunched his nose up, obviously in disgust, eyes narrowing down to her, as though it scarred him intellectually for her to even use the term.

"That's right." Rose snapped. "It's idiotic."

"You must know, Ms. Tyler, you are speaking to _the_ Sherlock Holmes who have staged a death that fooled the entire Great Britain―"

"―and is too much of a child to make his own tea just because his name's mentioned in several places. _You_ must know, Sherlock Holmes, that being famous and apparently a genius doesn't excuse you for being rude. I don't care _who_ you are, and what you do for a living. You are perfectly capable of making your own bloody tea."

"What do you mean 'apparently'?" Holmes sneered, "I _am_ a genius."

"Honestly?" She restrained an eye-roll. "Out of _all_ of the sentences?"

"I am a genius!" He pressed on, urging his fact. "I'm brilliant."

"Yeah, you're brilliantly rude, you are."

He glared then, stepping forward, only a feet away from her, stare harsh and unforgiving; clearly, he wasn't much of a morning person. _Well_, she didn't bother blurting out. He's not the only one. "I can tell who you are just by the sight of you, every bits more as the seconds ticked by. There is a remotely less than 10% chance I would have gotten any of my deductions wrong, and when it happened, it won't stray too far from the truth. I could tell a person if her husband's cheating on her, or if she's cheating on her husband. What happened earlier in the morning, or recently, or how many family member she has or whom she's lost. I could shred you into pieces with the pure facts of the truth which happened that you are too emotional to face, too attached. Too _haunted_." He repeated, nearly spitting. "So, I warn you, Rose Tyler. Do not anger me."

"Anger you?" She whispered out, disbelief flooded her system, her own rage fuelling up from deep within her core. _The truth?_ She's been struggling with the truth since she's realised she's lost her Doctor, all nine months of her trying to push herself out of bed every morning, _trying to breathe_. So, what's another sentences telling her exactly what she'd known? Rose gritted her teeth. "Give me your best shot, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes blinked.

And stared.

While Rose stood her ground.

"You're irritated," he noted, quite dumbly.

Rose resisted the urge to smack him right across his head, crossing her arms over her chest. "Yeah? Not too obvious, was I?"

Unexpectedly, the consulting detective held whatever clever retort he must have had and quieted down. Instead, he chose to sweep a look over to her considerably, something unreadable passed over his eyes and she frowned. He turned around then, back against her and walked over to his armchair, taking a seat, a heavy sigh escaping his lips as he chanced a nonchalant stare at the dead fireplace. "I'm bored."

Guess an argument in the morning wasn't enough to entertain a super genius. Rose shrugged, a whistle of a sigh made its way quietly through her lips and she shifted. Suddenly, she caught the side of Mrs. Hudson, a tray of hot tea in her hand and a frustrated lines covering her face. Rose pursed her lips at the scene, and carefully hid her sigh; Mrs. Hudson really shouldn't be going about nursing the man-child now pouting in his little chair. "Sherlock, must you scream so loud so early in the morning―" The woman was on top of the stairs when she lifted her chin up, eyes bright when her sight landed on Rose, and a smile painted her worn face. "Oh my, you're still here!"

"My name's Rose, Mrs. Hudson. Do you need any help?"

"Oh no, dear. I'm perfectly fine. Ah, yes. Rose. Such a lovely name." Mrs. Hudson appeared more happy at her presence than Rose expected her to, guiding her steps into the flat. She stepped forward, her hands clutched by her side naturally, ready to take the tray from the older woman if needed to, "Say, did you spent a night here, dear?"

"On the couch, yeah."

"The couch?" Mrs. Hudson gasped then, mortified. She craned her neck to where Holmes was, a deep frown etched on her face. "Sherlock, how could you?"

"What?" He snapped, clearly annoyed.

"You should know better, young man. You were raised―" It was cut off immediately when Mrs. Hudson shrieked, her pitch blasting off in Rose's eardrum as she slipped on a pool of water on the boarded floor. Rose was quick though, since she was closer to the older woman, catching her just in time to cushion her downfall. The tray splattered, bringing the hot teas crashing down, and it was just a not-so-sweet coincidence that it fell right where her left foot was, scalding through her jeans right to her calf. She yelped in pain, but shifted Mrs. Hudson quick enough so that the hot water won't hit the older woman, the bottom of her spine felt as though it was lit on fire just as the floor quickly came in contact with it.

She shut her eyes and gritted her teeth.

Holmes was there in a flash, for the first time worry flashed over in his eyes, when Mrs. Hudson whimpered. "Mrs. Hudson," his voice was low, and his hand cradled over the older woman's skinny bones, his thumb went over her knuckles. His eyes drooped down at the pool of water, glaring, and his cheeks smouldered with just a small hint of angry red. "There's a leak. I should have―"

"Oh, no, Sherlock, I'm―" Mrs. Hudson waved away tiredly, obviously in some kind of pain, though Rose held hope it wasn't too excruciating since the older woman _did_ land on top of her. "Oh, dear― _Rose!_"

At that point, Rose was hissing cruelly through her lips, as though poison was eating her alive from the inside, even if the reality was that her skin was just burning from the hot tea, now soaking up her jeans. Suddenly, the rest of Mrs. Hudson's near-hysteric tones of concern posed as merely background noises when Rose's head only filtered it out, missing the unsettled glances Holmes gave her way. She closed her eyes shut.

It was a full minute later that she found herself at the bottom of the bathroom's floor, her jeans left forgotten by her side, naked from the waist-down with the exception of her knickers still intact, her outer calf hot and exposed, and _burning,_ and for that one second she wondered― _what in the hell is she doing here_.

Rose blinked down, her fingers moved gingerly around the area who were suddenly too raw for her to touch, and she swallowed.

From the noises outside, or the lack thereof, she could easily concluded that Holmes had successfully convinced Mrs. Hudson to leave, and though she appreciated the older woman's worry, she was grateful the gracious landlady wasn't there. It was better this way, she thought. Surely she could handle a little burn. Nothing too serious. She's a big girl, wasn't she?

She sighed.

The _drip-drip-dripping_ water from the sink echoed against the hollow bathroom and just as Rose was trying to push herself up from the floor, or collect whatever's courage she'd lost over the sight of her angry, red flesh― the door swung open.

She looked up.

"Mr. Holmes," she muttered, blinking up at his abrupt presence, and for a moment caught herself in between trying to cover up her bare self or yelling him about a _serious_ privacy breaching. But Rose did neither, when her mouth only open in a small gap, staring at him, as though _waiting_ for him to do something― _challenging_ him of his next move while his eyes went over to her legs, pausing more than a brief moment on where the tea had claimed its territory over her skin. She gulped.

"It's not serious. The burn." He said in return, without flinching. "Spread from ankle, to the calf and near the back, which suggested you were shielding Mrs. Hudson not only from the fall, but the tea as well. It's been exposed to the fluid longer than it should, which concluded you will most likely develop blisters. Definitely will cause sore, and effect your action to walk properly, but won't last for more than a few hours. Still, it's a delicate area nonetheless."

"Mr. Holmes." She pressed on, trying her best to hide the irritation from clearing through. "I'm half-naked."

"I am aware," he replied, monotone, and moved, seemingly to reach something from somewhere close. "Here," his hand extended to reveal an ointment in between his fingers, right in his palm and he nodded towards it. "It'll help."

"It's not bad," she forced out, pointing towards her injury, surprised at the sudden action, but reached out for the ointment anyhow.

He hummed once, short and firm. "I've deduced that."

_Of course you have_, she thought with a snark, but didn't voice it out. The ointment felt light when it fell on her hands, and she glanced at the tall consulting detective wryly. Nevertheless, she managed a quiet: "Thank you."

He nodded, placing a towel on top of the sink. "May I also suggest you could do well with a shower―"

"Get out." She cut him off immediately, and watched as his figure left, shutting the bathroom's door behind him. Rose sighed when she was sure he's completely left her alone, blinking back at what just happened, before her gaze returned to the ointment in her hands; she squeezed it, just to make sure, for the sake of her sanity, that it was there. It was solid. That it _did_ happened. And when it felt good enough, Rose allowed herself to smile.

_Just because_, she reasoned.

* * *

She's got herself a shower anyway, because she needed it (_without_ some fancy genius detective telling her so) and when she walked out of it, slightly limping, finding a what-appeared-to-must-be a dead rabbit with its stomach being pulled out on the kitchen table, she realised that Holmes had went on to rip his bedroom into two, looking for something.

_He's doing an experiment_, she concluded, peering in just a little to catch his figure hunching over to search for something under the bed.

But there was also something there. Something which almost went unnoticed. Just near the dead rabbit's stomach content, a few _inches_ away where the blood smeared the table, and Rose didn't know whether to cry ironically, or laugh hysterically. She settled on letting another smile escaping her full lips that morning, suddenly overwhelmed.

Two cups of tea; one full, the other near-empty.

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And it's not too hot, either.

* * *

**End Note**: This is supposed to be a longer update, but I thought this is a good place to end the chapter. For now. And yeah, I've been in Rose's place when a hot drink hit your skin― though mine was a hot chocolate-drink rather than tea, and yeah, it really is the worst when you're wearing pants. _Don't do it_.

Thank you for the read, and may you have a lovely day ahead of you. Please leave a review, if you have the time. It would mean the world to me for an opinion or two.


	4. Interval

**Disclaimer**: Everything belongs to their rightful owner(s).  
**Pairing**: Sherlock/Rose, side-John/Mary.  
**Genre**: Drama, Romance, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Adventure.  
**World/Story Setting**: Post Season 3 [BBC Sherlock], post-Doomsday & in Pete's world (parallel universe) [Doctor Who]  
**Rating**: PG-13/T.  
**Summary**: What do you know? Sherlock Holmes is real. And Rose Tyler is determined to meet him.

**Author's Note**: 4,304 words. Guys, just so we're clear, I'd like to think that zeppelins don't exist in _my_ Pete's world. Or it does, just not a lot. May be heavily edited in the near future.

* * *

**FOUR. _INTERVAL_.**

* * *

Though, of course, the tea was finally left untouched when Holmes suddenly stalked up to the living room― she was just drying her hair up with the towel― and looked out of the window, his face souring even more in matter of seconds as his eyes caught whatever sight there was outside, and Rose's eyes landed on the phone he held with his right hand.

There was a moment of silence where everything seemed to stand still, and Rose felt a terrible tug to her eyebrows, drawing them together. _What was he on about this time?_ From where she was, Holmes released a heavy outtake of air.

"Are you quite done?" He asked abruptly, his eyes then shifted to her and she noted mentally of the seriousness there, almost a hint of agitation swimming by. She wondered what it was that he saw.

"Are we going anywhere?" She asked instead, bright curious eyes blinking back at him, her tone careful.

"Out." He turned, dragging his feet up to where his coat lied. "You're coming with me."

_Oh?_ She almost question, but caught her tongue before the words tumbled out. Of course she's coming with him. What good would she do in the apartment all alone anyway. She didn't know anybody here, didn't have any activity in store. All she had, in reality, was... well, Holmes, and whatever he planned for the day. So Rose tossed the towel aside, though she made sure it didn't end up toppled as another mess, and grabbed on her leather jacket, sighing as the fabric enveloped her skin. She ran her hand down to the inside of the jacket's pocket and curled her fingers around the phone, and missed the way Holmes eyes glanced over to her.

She followed him down the stairs.

There was a part of her brain that told her that this was familiar ― _like the Doctor, yeah?_ ― but it was also wasn't. No. She was not going to walk out of here and straight into a blue police telephone box, or were about to enter another world that was entirely beyond her wildest imagination. She was only here with Sherlock Holmes, the detective, _human, _making her way down the steps and onto the ordinary world.

Strangely, that thought didn't bother her as much as it should.

"Is Mrs. Hudson alright?" she hushed, the memory from approximately twenty minutes ago flooded her mind and she finally winced as that one step caused the friction between her pants and her raw skin to grace a little more harshly than it could apparently handle.

"She'll live." He drawled, sounding bored and intense all at the same time. "We're running out of eggs, aren't we?"

"M'sorry?"

"Eggs." He repeated, pressing on the intonation. He pulled his phone out, and casually pressed his thumbs against the screen in the manner that suggested he was texting someone. Rose made a small leap to get a quick view from over his shoulder as she was a stair higher and frowned when she saw the contact ID.

"Oh my god, you big baby." She exclaimed, with complete awareness of how loud she's been.

He paused in his steps, and turned around. Obviously the term affected him like she knew it would, and she bravely raised both her eyebrows at him, waiting for whatever may come next out of his chapped, pale lips. "Excuse me?"

"We're going out. Right now. And you're texting your landlady to buy you some eggs." Rose tilted her to one side, her face lit up in a way that should tell him she wasn't dealing well with any of his attitude that very morning. She crossed her arms over her chest, pressing her lips tightly, "What next? Should I be calling Detective Inspector Lestrade to monitor the temperature of your bath the next time you need a wash?"

"I don't _need_ Lestrade to―" Holmes stopped, her sarcasm finally reached to his senses and she watched slowly as his whole expression settled with a sharp glare. She was more than happy to return it with a large grin, and felt worn from it. Like she's smiled in that same, similar pose before, but it's been too long. It _was_ too long, she pondered, just briefly.

"We'll get eggs when we're out." She told, moving past him and patted his shoulder, shaking her melancholy memories. "Surely we could make a quick visit at the market."

"We won't have the time."

"We'll _make_ time." She retorted back, and felt nostalgic then.

_Well_― her mind reeled. _We'll make time just as any humans would. Just like how I used to_. For a moment, Rose panned out her fingers in front of her torso, as though she's trying to define everything that's happened, but curled it within her palms when the struck of memories came rushing past. _Quit it, Tyler_.

Gladly, Holmes didn't notice her sudden change in behaviour, or if he did, he didn't _care_, and rushed past her to the door. He twisted the knob open, throwing her another quick glare, this time added with a small sneer; the top of his lips curled and she swore she saw his left eye twitched and then there was that grin again, carving itself up on her face. _Irritating geniuses_. Much more entertaining than paperworks.

Once they're outside, Rose didn't missed a large-built man in black waiting for their arrival. Rose gave him a quick once-over, and concluded easily on how he was once a soldier. The sunglasses he had over his eyes did nothing to hide the scar underneath, running up to the top of his cheekbones; it must be extremely painful when he'd first received such injury. His emotionless mask didn't break when his stare landed onto her petite figure, before he officially greeted Holmes― though of course the consulting detective didn't even bother to bat an eye, only huffing out an agitated, quipped order: "We'll take the cab."

"But Mr. Holmes, I've been ordered―"

"I said," Holmes cut him off, his stare leering up to a hateful sneer. "We will take the cab. Do I not make myself clear?"

There was a moment when the large-built man passed her a look, perhaps requesting for some help to urge his pleas, but Rose put on her mask of being the obedient bodyguard, and she did not move from her position. The man finally turned back to the consulting detective, exhaling heavily and said, "Very well. I'll inform―"

"Come along then," Holmes were already striding away, beckoning her to follow him without much as a gesture besides from his order.

While Rose knew she would usually be able to catch up no matter how quick his steps were, with the sore from the hot tea still stinging on her legs, all Rose could manage was walking without tripping herself. But just as she thought she'd lost Holmes to the crowd, the man stopped and waved his hand. It was as though the cabbie had always been there, when it pulled up in a few, short seconds later. He turned to her, frowning. "Must you walk so slow?"

"Must _you_ walk so quickly?"

"You're wasting time." He answered bluntly.

"You're not actually savouring it." She replied, nearly pouting. "Help me."

"What?"

"Just―" She cringed, the words weighed heavily on the edge of her lips. "Help me."

There were too many friction on her calf by then that it took all of her willpower not to rip her pants off her skin. _It was weird_, she thought. She'd never come to the part of her life where requesting help was excruciating, but the truth of the matter was: it was. She hadn't asked for anyone's help for _ages_, perhaps. Especially since she's been torn apart from the Doctor. She'd always have the mindset to do everything on her own, because if she did, then it'll go according to plan, even if there was none. She had never thought that she'll come across herself who was too... _afraid_ to ask for help.

She didn't want to appear weak.

Because she wasn't.

Rose gritted her teeth and moved forward, until she felt a rough grip grabbed a hold of her forearm. Her mind barely registered the gloved fingers when she tipped her chin upwards, her eyes wide when she was met with pale skin and dark curls. Holmes huffed, but didn't say a word. He wasn't making any eye-contact.

(It was only then did Rose realised she was holding her breath.)

She drew a shaky breath out as she made the last step and allowed herself to be assisted by none other than Sherlock Holmes while she wandered her way into the cab. "Thank you," she whispered, at the lowest of volumes, because within his grip, and her weight supported against him, she felt a little more like she was... _fragile_. Perhaps, she was. Or maybe the whole moment was. She wasn't certain, but something was very breakable somewhere, and it was as though one wrong move can set it all to the point of no return.

Or maybe because Rose hadn't consumed her usual coffee order as she would, and she was starting to think too much.

She thought she saw Holmes nodding his head as an acknowledgement, but she wasn't so sure as she averted her eyes to the scenes outside the cab, didn't even bother to check the address Holmes later on passed to the cabbie.

"Where are we going?" She asked, a few minutes later, when they drove a quite distance away from Baker Street.

He didn't chance her a look. "Rest assured, you are not to be harm anytime soon, Ms. Tyler."

"Well, that's promising." She offered him a playful glance, her smile itching on her face. "You're not taking me far away to murder me, are you, Mr. Holmes?"

He finally turned to her, hiking one eyebrow, before his gaze dropped down at where her army knife were hidden by her ankle, "I wouldn't worry about that." His eyes caught with hers again, and she was surprised when she was met with the smallest hint of a smirk from him. _Sherlock Holmes_. _Smirking_. Rose couldn't believe it.

Her grin widened.

* * *

"Brother dear."

_Oh, so _this_ is the famous Mycroft Holmes_. He's more terrifying than how Pete described him; Rose raised a curious eyebrow, and was careful enough not to flinch when Mycroft's leering smile at his brother faltered instantly as soon as his eyes registered her figure. The older man blinked back at his younger brother, the fondness of a sibling was too fake when his mouth curled into another unpleasantly, fake smile. "A fresh face. Ah, Sherlock, have you forgotten to inform mummy of your recent... _affair_?"

"Don't be a fool, Mycroft." Sherlock replied, and it was obvious that he was restraining himself from rolling his eyes. "You know fully well she and I are not engaging in any form of relationship whatsoever."

"Well, she has certainly made herself comfortable in your bathroom, haven't you my dear?" He asked, his focus fixing entirely on her, and Rose stared at him questionably. _How did he_― "Your hair. It's still damp. So are the top collar of your shirt." The older man went on, gesturing at the wet stain and the hair with his cane. "It's quite obvious really. Even a five-year-old could deduce that, right Sherlock?"

"I don't recall you requesting me here for an idly chat." The consulting detective said instead, tugging on his coat.

"Oh, you know I just _hate_ that." Mycroft jeered, almost hissing. He turned to Rose and held up a shady smile, "The name's Mycroft, my dear. And you are―?"

"Rose Tyler." She answered proudly, tilting her chin up. She was tempted to give out a wider, amused smile, but she wouldn't want to raise any suspicion. She was sure enough that Mycroft will experience it once he _tried_ to do a background check on her. It was a good thing she'd ordered Tosh to secure all of her files, one where even someone such as the elder Holmes, no matter how powerful he was in the government, couldn't even _touch_.

"Rose. Such a sweet name." The older man smiled with his lips pressed together. "Would you fancy a cup of tea?"

"A tea would be nice," a genuine smile escaped her, and Rose tried not to appear as desperate. Oh heavens, she's starving. Mycroft gave her a glance, and there's some kind of intensity there; and Rose could almost see it― the way his eyes worked over and his brain tried to trace every little bits it could gather, filling the blanks of who she was, and where she's been. A part of her, the child part, wondered about how much he'd deduced, but the grown part of her kept her where she was. "Oh, and chips. If you have some. That would be brilliant."

"Chips?" The older Holmes questioned, frowning.

"Chips?" Holmes echoed, his dark brows furrowed together, staring up at her.

She beamed, and nodded. Even the name of the food sent thrills down her stomach. It was only morning, and she was sure if mum was here she wouldn't hear the end of it, but a chip sounded good about then. And besides, mum wasn't there― how was that saying go again? What she doesn't know, won't kill her? "Chips."

"As you wish, Ms. Tyler." He moved his cane atop of his desk and pressed a button, and a robot-like lady voice came through, greeting first, before the customary, '_yes, Mr. Holmes?_' was heard. Mycroft held a smile, but it was the type of smile that you had out of an obligatory to act somewhat decent, somewhat humane and Rose was astonished, not for the first time, of how well someone could hold a certain mask for so long. "Ah, yes, Linda. If you would bring up a few cups of tea for my brother and his... _associate_, that would be splendid. Oh, and chips, if you may. The best one you've got."

"Right away, sir." The robotic-voiced lady, _Linda_, answered curtly.

"Thank you, Linda." Mycroft cooed, before the line was cut off and the rustling noises from the end of the line where Linda was weren't heard anymore. He gestured towards a chair behind, "Please. Take a seat."

Holmes didn't even move. "You're wasting time," he growled, annoyed.

"You're twitching, little brother." Mycroft shook his head, and if Rose weren't observant enough, she could missed the amusement sparkling in the older man's expression. "Not a good look on you, I would say―"

"_MYCROFT!_" Holmes finally bellowed, and Rose flinched. Just a little.

_It was just a loud noise_. She moved herself to take a seat, calming her all-so-suddenly jumpy nerves. She'd heard it all before, haven't she? The sudden yell, and loud noises. Happened all the times when she's at fieldwork. It was just...

Holmes' eyes were red, his nose flaring. _What was happening_―

And then, Rose finally calculated the whole situation she was in, straight from the beginning: Holmes was called in by his brother, wasn't he? That was why there was a car waiting outside the apartment when they walked out. And it was obvious the Holmes brothers weren't the best of friends, which explained the face he pulled when he was staring out the window, confirming the _text_ he just received a few moment's ago, explaining on the tight grip he had over the phone. Mycroft had requested his little brother. But why?

And, as Mycroft pointed out, it made Holmes twitchy― paranoid, impatient. The older Holmes had something to tell him. And it wasn't just some _petty_ information, it was something he needed Holmes to hear it himself. And as she'd know enough from Tosh and Pete, Mycroft held a high position in the government, which meant whatever details he had to discuss must be extremely confidential.

_Moriarty_.

That was the only explanation. _It must be_. Rose chewed on her lips.

"Well, I was hoping we could discuss it after―"

"What―" Holmes seemed to bite each word out, taking a step closer to his older brother. "―have you got?"

"Patience, Sherlock." Mycroft stared back, his smile vanished from sight as his eyes daringly challenged his younger brother to take another step. Slowly, the older man brought up his cane up to his brother's chest, adding pressure into it. And then― _knock, knock! _It was a gentle knock, not an urgent one, quickly followed by a hush voice alarming the three of them that the teas and the chips were ready.

_That was quick_, Rose couldn't help but to think.

"Come in," Mycroft drawled, pushing his little brother away and stood straighter, inviting the help with a warm smile as they set up the tea and the chips. Rose said her thanks, making sure to act as neutral as possible to the whole situation. When the room were reduced back to the three of them, the older Holmes finally walked over to the large chair behind his desk, pulling out a file. "It has been recently discovered that there has been some... _sights_ of a very suspicious activity and a _very_ familiar face at Southern East Asia. Jakarta, Indonesia to be exact. It's not―"

Holmes flipped through the file, "What― this doesn't tell anything."

"Now, Sherlock―"

"This is rubbish!" Holmes continued to flip through the files, pulling out various of blurry photos in between. "You've got nothing."

"_Read_, Sherlock."

"This proves nothing!"

"It has led to believe that the... _activity_ has been moved to Malaysia, up to Thailand and―"

Holmes slammed the file down the table, _loud_, and Rose finally averted her gaze (a scene she's been keen on trying not too look too interestingly at) worriedly at the Holmes brothers, and watched how the veins on Holmes' neck stood, all blue and clear. Mycroft remained his posture, though it was apparent that he was more intense now than he was a minute ago. "You. Have given me. Nothing."

"_This_ is not nothing, Sherlock." Mycroft replied back, then pushed a picture across the desk. "When are you planning on telling me, brother dear?"

"This..."

"She's alive?" Mycroft sounded angry. "I shouldn't have expected anything less."

Holmes finally picked on the file, his stare fixed on the most recent of pictures. Rose's curiosity peaked, but she remembered her role well and stayed where she was, picking on the cool, glass texture of the cup under her fingertips. She poured herself a cup. "Read, Sherlock. For goodness' sakes. Don't lose your grip on what's in front of you."

"I won't," Holmes answered, and something like a growl emitted from the back of his throat.

Rose shot Holmes a worried glance at that moment, because there was just something she'd never thought she'd hear, or thought she would _see_, from the consulting detective― desperation. She's seen this before, she thought. The same fear streak over hundreds of faces, the despair. _Don't lose grip on what's in front of you_ had been Mycorft Holmes' words, but the translation behind it was clear: _don't go mad_.

Perhaps Rose had underestimated her whole situation, her timing in all of these.

"And how do I know I could trust you, Ms. Tyler?" It took a moment for Rose to realise the question was directed to her, and she met with the older man's harsh gaze. Before she were even given the chance to answer, Mycroft turned to his brother disapprovingly. "_What_ is she doing here?"

"She's my bodyguard." Holmes responded, losing interest.

"Bodyguard?" Laughed Mycroft, complete mirth passed through his chuckles. "My brother doesn't need a _bodyguard_. One who's especially clumsy enough to get herself injured only just recently, no less."

"She was injured while trying to cushion Mrs. Hudson's fall this morning when she slipped on a pool of water leaked from the room upstairs, so if you would please, Mycroft―" Holmes blinked, his voice drooped in a lower tone and his face pinched in a stare that could make a mortal woman's knees weak. "Shut up."

"You _trust_ her?"

Holmes rolled his eyes. "I trust that she won't hesitate to put a bullet right through your skull―"

Rose finally stood up, shaking her head, "I really wouldn't―"

"Given if you threaten her." Holmes gave her a sideway glance, eyes narrowed. "She doesn't practice favouritism."

"Are you suggesting there's a possibility Ms. Tyler would also kill you, baby brother? In your sleep, perhaps."

Rose cringed slightly, "I'm not really favouring on killing anybody soon―"

"Why not?" Holmes responded, arrogance shaped his structure. "She could at least _try_."

_Were they even serious at this point? Honestly?_ Rose was getting tired of this. It wasn't as though they would listen to her, anyway. The Holmes brothers glared at each other, her presence completely ignored and it was Rose's turn to roll her eyes. Her stare dropped back to the chips and she sighed, wondering aloud, "All I ever wanted was just to eat chips in peace."

And bloody hell, they even looked good.

"We're done." Holmes said, his sentence a split between a statement and a question.

"Leaving so soon?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Lunch with John and Mary." Was all Holmes offered as he pulled his phone out and began to type in on another text. In a matter of seconds, Holmes pushed his phone away and nodded in acknowledgement towards his brother before he walked out, just like that, leaving Rose to stagger behind. She locked eyes with the older Holmes just as Mycroft exhaled out a heavy sigh through his nostrils, the frustration getting the best of him.

_Concern_. As scary as Mycroft Holmes appeared to be, Rose could see it: he was only concern for his brother, even if his methods were questionable, at best.

"Thank you," Rose breathed out, not knowing exactly for _what_, catching the older man's attention. "I'll make sure he lives through the week."

"As heartwarming as that was, Ms. Tyler." He drawled, his brows pinched together in utter seriousness. "I still don't trust you."

Rose managed a smile― teeth and all. "You don't have to."

With that, she exited.

* * *

Dr. John Watson was waiting for them when they arrived back at 221B Baker Street, and in his hands were plastic bags.

"What happened? Where have you two been?" He came forward, rushing towards them when he spotted them coming out of the cab. From her right, she could sense on how Holmes resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the way his best friend gushed them over, but she could also detect the smile that's threatening to grace his pale face. Holmes was delighted to see Watson, as he always did, she's sure. "I got your text. I brought eggs. Just like you asked. Did you get a lead?"

Rose gawked at Holmes in disbelief, later on spatting him with the back of her hand right to his left chest. He yelped, then glared at her.

"You said I shouldn't text my landlady." Holmes reasoned, "Not my friend." He turned to John, "Have you brought the other thing I asked?"

Rose shook her head, pressing her fingers up her forehead. _She couldn't believe it_. She'd made Dr. Watson did grocery shopping for Sherlock Holmes. _She_ was the cause of it. And the doctor must have been so busy...

"―chips? Yeah. I got them."

Rose blinked, confused.

Holmes spoke calmly, "You wanted chips. I asked John to buy you some."

"Wait, what." Watson spluttered out.

"You..." She stared at him, baffled. "That's not right."

"You haven't had anything to eat since morning and it is very much apparent that you need it." Holmes scrunched up his nose as though the idea of _breakfast_ was horrifying, but didn't stop himself from continuing. "Plus, I had matters to discuss with John. Shall we?"

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That morning, though Watson claimed how Holmes hated  
the scent wafted from coffees, Rose made one for herself anyway.

The famous consulting detective barely flinched.

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While Watson and Holmes discussed over the file  
Mycroft gave away, Rose sat and wondered out through the  
window of the complete file she had on Moriarty  
stored in her phone (that she read, _bunch_ of times) and asked  
herself―

_What now?_

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Her coffee tasted abnormally bitter than usual.


End file.
